


Godslayer

by BurningMartian



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningMartian/pseuds/BurningMartian
Summary: A retelling of the final battle at Denerim for the fate of Ferelden.





	Godslayer

“We have been led astray.”

This was not a particularly pleasant bit of news, as the Wardens and their allied forces moved to Redcliffe, where Riordan had ordained the final war to decide the fate of Ferelden would take place. 

But Morrigan had had the sense to scout ahead for enemy movement, and had returned with the news that the Spawn had managed to deceive them all.

“How could they move their forces around that fast?” Alistair protested.

“The Deep Roads, young Warden king.” Kardol, of the Legion of the Dead, chimed in. “The Deep Roads connect most of Thedas most intimately. The Spawn have the run of the place, and can move their forces with impunity.”

“I also felt a tremendous aura over the troops. My guess would be, a Mass Haste spell, to envelope the army.” Morrigan said.

Riel Surana shivered. “A Haste spell to cover that many… how many emissaries could they possibly have within their ranks?”

“A hundred? Perhaps more? It boggles the mind… Can our resources even compete, Irving?” Wynne asked the First Enchanter, worry writ large over her face. The elder mage merely shook his head, pondering the implications.

“ ‘Twas not all I saw… I also saw Urthemiel itself from the sky, large enough to blot out the sun.. It's power was… immense. How the Wardens of Old fought such a creature, I know not.. I dared not go any closer. Tis a terrible thing to behold.” Morrigan said.

Her eyes darted to where her love sat, perched on a windowsill, the sunlight playing across the copper strands of his hair. Felix Amell seemed not to be listening, his eyes fixated over the horizon, staring an interminable distance at absolutely nothing. But she knew he was hanging onto their every word, his expression betraying nothing to any who cared to observe, save for her. To anyone else, he would appear tranquil, at ease or resigned. Morrigan knew he was tensed with anticipation.

“The discussion about slaying the Archdemon is one for later. Right now, our first concern is reaching Denerim before the city is razed to the ground.” Arl Eamon cut in.

Riordan nodded in agreement. “We also need.to plan our assault. The entire bulk of our troops cannot make it to Denerim before it's destruction. We must divide our forces carefully, and plan our assault of the city accordingly.”

“I believe I can help with that.” Eranya Cousland, future queen of Ferelden, stepped forward, and gestured to her fellow warden. “Arya, you have the most knowledge among those assembled here of Denerim’s structure, it's alleyways, everything that could be of use to us.

Arya Tabris nodded. The young elf had spent her childhood flitting between dark alleyways, relieving shoppers of of their wallets and disappearing within nooks and crannies of the city even the guards were unaware of to avoid detection.

“What do you want to know?”

The next few hours passed in deliberations of their assault on the City, even as the troops they could gather on a short notice assembled outside. Despair hung heavy over the air, knowing the enemy's army was going to outnumber them by far. And yet, they had their duty, to march on Denerim. The march itself would take a little over a week.

And then they were there, with Denerim looming over the horizon. And the ancient Dragon, it's black wings like sails, blotting out the sky.

And so the assault began.

The first move would be to clear the outskirts of the city before they began to breach the walls. The wardens led the charge at the forefront. The two armies collided in a deafening roar. Man, dwarf, elf and Darkspawn were cut down alike. The melee lasted minutes dragging on into hours. And finally the first phase of the battle was won.

The Grey Warden King, Alistair, stood forward to rally his people.

“Before us stands the might of the Darkspawn horde! Gaze upon them now, but fear them not! These people beside me-” He gestured to his comrades. “-were natives of Ferelden, now risen to the ranks of the Grey Wardens. They are living proof, that glory is within reach of you all! They have survived despite all odds, and without them, none of us would be here!”

“Today, we save Denerim. Today we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan! But most of all, today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember, and honour their sacrifice!”

“For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!”

And the onslaught was begun anew.

The outer walls would have to be breached first. Around the skies of Denerim, Gian birds, their form not composed of feathers, but of sheafs of paper, flew, held in the air by the arts of the Formari magi, Dalish archers perched on their backs. Arrows as large as harpoons were strapped to the elves’ backs, ropes tethered to the ends.

Talyn Mahariel pulled back and released one projectile after the other with a practiced hand. The arrows bit into the brick walls, tethering the rope as makeshift ziplines for the allied forces.

There was a deafening crash as the walls shook, threatening to break apart. A lone emissary stood on the roof of one of the guard towers dotted around the outer border of the city. It released devastating magics to bring the walls down.

“Stop that mage!” Someone cried over the din. “If that wall falls, it'll take out most of our army under it!”

“Keep that thing's magic off me!” Talyn cried to a Formari enchanter from overhead. Without waiting for a reply, he fired an arrow at the emissary, who predictably swatted the projectile aside with a burst of force, where it bit into the adjoining wall, remaining lodged there. Immediately, Talyn slung his bow over the rope, using the impromptu zipline to slide toward the emissary. 

It hurled bright blasts of acid green flame at him, which singed his skin even from a distance, before washing off an invisible wall in front of him. Apparently, the enchanter had heard him.

Getting near the Darkspawn mage, Talyn flung himself through the air, landing on the balls of his feet on the roof before rolling on a shoulder to disperse the impact. Immediately, he rushed the emissary, that had already readied another spell, knocking it's wrist upward as a bolt of fire streaked into the sky. He kicked it's legs out from under it, then trapped it's throat beneath his bow. As it shrieked at him in it's frustration, he embedded a dagger he had pulled from his boot into it's skull.

He rose from the remains of his opponent to surveil the battle raging below. Despite his efforts, a section of the wall had fallen after all.

The Templars, depleted in number since the incident at Kinloch, now worked in tandem with the Spirit Healers. They pulled the wounded that looked to have a chance of recovery along a queue, where the healers would tend to them.

Knight Commander Greagoir had been crushed under several tonnes of rubble as a section of the wall collapsed. Pulled from the rubble, he was set at Riel Surana's feet.

Immediately, she whispered ice as she cradled his head, cooling his head to prevent the imminent degradation. The older man's heart had given out, even as the Templars managed to pry him out of his crushed armour. Sparks dancing on her fingers, she opened his chest with a heated dagger, then set about directly massaging the cardiac muscles. As soon as they started to throb once more, she pulled her bloodied fingers from his thorax, letting waves of restorative energy knit his flesh back together. 

Suddenly, the knight Commander coughed up a globule of blood, then sat up, eyes shifting into focus. “S-Surana?”

But the elven healer had already moved onto her next patient.

Within the market district, the City Guard were holed up within the Chantry. Sergeant Kylon had drawn the civilians back within it's walls, as the most defensible position in the marketplace. Hordes of Spawn had been cut down trying to breach the gate.

“Sir, there's a-”

The guardsman was cleaved in two as he approached. Kylon saw the silhouette of a tall Darkspawn, built like a brick house, horned helm perched on it's visage.

It advanced steadily. Every blow seemed to make the very air around it's weapon ripple, tearing the men apart with frightening ease. 

Kylon himself rained a score of blows on the creature, which it didn't even seem to notice. In a last act of desperation, he simply flicked the black blood coating his blade into the creature's eyes. As it reeled backwards, he was able to twist it's battleaxe out of it's hands.

As victory seemed within grasp, steely fingers wrapped around his throat, and he was lifted off the floor, then slammed on the floor. The snap was the last sensation he felt, as all sensation left him, and he saw the Alpha advance towards the cowering civilians with his last breath.

The marketplace itself was prime hunting grounds. A block surrounded by the towering estates of nobility, was an opportunity like shooting the fish within a barrel, so to speak. Bann Alfstanna Eremon herself had commanded the contingent of archers, their flaming arrows having turned the central block to an abattoir. Several Ogres lay piled, turned to pincushions by a hailstorm of arrows.

The Bann had been a powerful woman, learned in the art of war, her men loyal and willing to lay down their lives at her command. But such details were of no concern to a God.

The Archdemon swooped low over the square, corrupt power surging within it, that it unleashed with a roar, as pillars of white hot flame erupted from the earth to touch the sky, consuming once mighty estates and leaving only rubble behind, and the whole contingent of archers, as well as their leader herself, died, consumed by hellfire.

And as the Marketplace was levelled, the Iron gate to the Alienage fell, and the Spawn streamed inwards, ever in search of more victims.

Arya Tabris watched the Iron gate fall, and shrieked, breaking away from formation where she and Eranya Cousland were supposed to hold their positions, preventing the Spawn from flooding through the back alleys to spread even further through the city, and managing to corner them from both sides.

“Arya! Your.people will be saved, I assure you! But if you abandon this post, Denerim will fall!” Eranya Cousland's voice rang out.

Arya hesitated, frozen to the spot. How much had her people sacrificed for an ungrateful nation of humans? How many times had her trust in highborn humans been shattered?

A shriek moved to flank her friend, and Arya Tabris made her choice. Immediately hurling a bulb of acid at the advancing creature, she opened it's throat while it recoiled in pain. Shooting a glance at Eranya, she breathed, “If my family is hurt, I won't forgive you. Queen or not.”

Cousland merely nodded solemnly in acknowledgement of the statement.

As it happened, the Alienage was not without its defenses. Kardol and 100 of his Legionnaires, vastly outnumbered by the looming horde, yet stood strong. The emissaries that had torn away all opposition previously found themselves matched against Dwarven warriors that ignored charred skin and lungs full of smoke to hack down a dozen more Spawn before keeling over. Put simply, each dwarf fought like one already dead.

Kardol buried his axe in yet another Hurlock, and his hand came away, disarmed, both by the exhaustion of his muscles and the blood slicked over the hilt. He turned to rally his men with one more roar, before his head was abruptly cleaved from his shoulders, the arterial spray splashing his brothers in arms that stood too close in a spray of warm lifeblood and despair.

The Hurlock Alpha lifted it's battleaxe off the dwarve's corpse, it's muscles pulsing with the strength of Urthemiel. The God of Beauty. And the Alpha would paint a beautiful, blood soaked landscape in His honour.

A raven streaked over the sky. That should have been the first indication that something was wrong.

Suddenly, the Alpha found itself robbed of it's sense of balance, the world itself seeming to have turned on itself.

Several of the Spawn fell, asleep, as several more shrieked, victim to some unknown torment. A woman's wicked, mischievous mirth echoed through the shadows. The emissary attempted to counter the magic, to no avail. The last sight the Alpha saw was the raven haired, golden eyed woman, thick, dark mist enveloping her form, mist that proceeded to strangle it and the Spawn it commanded from the inside out.

Riordan had taken the courtyard of Fort Drakon, taking full advantage of his Warden blood to assassinate as many of the emissaries camped there as possible. 

But his luck had to run out. And it had.

Standing before him was an Omega. The mightiest the Blighted legions had to offer. An Alpha became so by killing it's broodmates. And an omega became so by killing Alphas, in their bloody race for domination.

Suspended like a helpless newborn babe, Riordan could only laugh helplessly before the weight of a thousand anvils fell upon him, reducing him to little more than a pool of gore.

But a helmed rider mounted on a stallion thundered up the stairs of the courtyard. The Omega contemptuously flicked it's wrist, hoping to blast the rider to smithereens with a thunderbolt. 

The stallion was blasted to chunks of gore, and the red mist obscured the creature's vision. Thus, it came as a terrible surprise when a blade, wreathed in white flame, was launched from the mist and embedded itself in the creature's skull.

Alistair, Warden King of Ferelden, approached the corpse to pull.his blade free, before his eyes ran over the sky, to track the dragon itself.

A thousand arrows blackened the sky, hoping to strike down Urthemiel from the sky. But the dragon could not be brought low. Every beat of it's massive wings brought forth the fury of a typhoon, battering aside all that would do it harm. Once more it swooped down, releasing an orb of pure darkness from it's maw amidst the alliance. All within the radius of a mile was flattened around it, as if a vengeful God had decided to knead the very earth. And it had. Entire sections of the army were lost each time the dragon swooped down. And despair gripped the heart of the allied races. Their sword arms began to shake, weapons falling out of fearful hands, as they began to tread backwards, as the Blighted Horde advanced, their roars contemptuous.

Lightning cracked the heavens, as the City itself seemed to be cracked in half.

Urthemiel turned to meet the challenge.

A lone mage at the summit of the Fort Drakon.

Copper hair flowing in the wind, Felix Amell roared a challenge. And the dragon roared right back, letting loose a stream of liquid fire that devoured the Fort itself, down to the foundations, and Denerim's tallest tower fell to the ground, humbled. And all hope seemed lost.

But the thunder did not let up. The rubble flew upward, guided by invisible force, to surround the Dragon, crushing it within a vise of stone. 

With a roar, the Archdemon broke free, reducing the debris surrounding it to dust. Crashing to the earth, it fired a sphere of glowing energy at the Warden, who, in response, clapped his hand onto the earth, and several walls of mud and earth erupted to intercept the sphere, tilted at an angle. The sphere burned clean through the earthen aegis, but was deflected from it's path. It flew off course, exploding on the outskirts of the city, and the glow of the explosion was visible over the horizon. A quarter of the city was reduced to ash.

The allied army did not move. Neither did the dark horde. Neither could tear their gaze away from this spectacle.

Urthemiel manipulated a slew of ogres to the front, then caused their flesh to explode, like living bombs. Bullets of meat and bone soared at impossible velocity, punching through Felix's defenses and tearing holes throughout his vessel.

Rising, the mage licked the blood weeping from his wounds. And he laughed.

It was a manic laugh, full of barely contained savagery. Then he charged, lightning wreathing his right arm.

As the dragon attempted to take to the sky, the earth churned beneath it's legs, pulling it below. A blade of pure lightning tore through it's right wing.

Shrieking in rage, it let out a concentric blast of black flame, turning the streets to rivers of molten lava. But the mage summoned chill wind from the upper reaches of the stratosphere, whirling around them, freezing all caught within it's merciless embrace. Powerful wind buffeted the dragon's injured wings, hampering it's ability to fly even further, even as it's blood began to freeze within it's massive vesicles.

Lightning rushed to the center of the Blizzard, and the heavens themselves seemed to tear themselves apart, a massive vortex, a lightning charged storm, with the Archdemon caught within it's heart.

Felix Amell manifested a massive spectral avatar of pure raw mana around himself, towering at over 10 metres of length. The storm began to converge around the avatar, as it seemed to devour the typhoon itself.

The spectral skin burst apart, writhing with veins of lightning, as a javelin of thunder manifested within one massive arm. The furious storm taken humanoid form clashed with the dark god in the skies of Denerim. 

Skyfire rained in every direction as what little of Denerim was left standing was set alight almost instantaneously. A massive explosion seemed to clear a hole through the heaven, clean to the stars above.

And God fell to Denerim's charred earth, reduced to little more than blackened, brittle bone.

Felix Amell rose to the top of the dragon's skull, where he had clung to as they fell, and roared, primal power coursing through his voice.

And the Blighted army broke ranks and ran, even as the alliance matched their cries of victory to that of the Godslayer. For today, Ferelden had been saved.


End file.
